


Miręs Girtas

by damnslippyplanet



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Drunk Cannibal Noises, Gen, Post-Finale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-26
Updated: 2015-09-26
Packaged: 2018-04-23 12:32:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4877005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/damnslippyplanet/pseuds/damnslippyplanet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just a fun bit of fluff written for <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGlintOfTheRail">TheGlintOfTheRail</a>, in honor of her "post-murderhusbands headcanon where Hannibal, trying to be a gentleman, is always sure to match Will drink for drink whenever they drink together in order to make him feel more at ease.  And then he has to hide how completely fucked up he’s gotten, because Will Graham can put it away." Yes. Yes, he can. <i>Ačiū</i> for the inspiration.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Miręs Girtas

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheGlintOfTheRail](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGlintOfTheRail/gifts).



“...are you even listening?”

“Hm?” Hannibal refocuses on Will. He’s not sure where his head was. He’d drifted away. “Yes, sorry, I was distracted for a moment. Please continue.” Did he just slur? He thinks he might have just slurred his words. It’s an effort to get his eyes pointing in the same direction. 

Will continues to elaborate on his theory about jury psychology and as Hannibal watches, he crosses over to the liquor cabinet and refills his glass.

Hannibal groans inwardly but he tips the last of his decanter of wine into his glass.

It had seemed like a good idea when the whole thing had started. Like the courteous thing to do. Will had been so distraught after their fall, his sleep uneasy both with physical pain and with nightmares. In the cabin they’d broken into and were hiding out in, there had been only minimal first aid supplies. Enough to patch them both up, but nothing in the way of real painkillers and certainly nothing like anti-anxiety medication. Hannibal’s only prescription option was rum.

Will had been reluctant to drink it. He didn’t want to be out of his head if they suddenly had to be on the move again. And, Hannibal came to realize although the words were never spoken, he was uneasy about getting drunk with Hannibal sober. That hurt, but to be fair, Will had spent a lot of time under the influence of one substance or another administered by Hannibal and the results hadn’t always been comforting ones. He could understand Will’s reluctance.

So it had seemed easy enough to remedy. Hannibal had reassured Will that he’d listened to the radio and the search parties were still way off base, searching in the wrong direction. They could afford to spend the night in their hideout. And he’d taken the first drink. And then he’d matched Will, shot for shot, passing the bottle back and forth until they were both warm and floaty and feeling no pain. They slept soundly that night and it was almost worth the hangover the next day.

After that it had just become Hannibal’s standard practice to match Will drink for drink. He’s not sure Will’s ever consciously realized he’s doing it, but he seems to be more at ease when he’s not drinking alone. And Hannibal would do just about anything to ease Will’s troubled mind. Usually it’s fine - a few drinks with dinner and perhaps while they talk afterwards, nothing out of the ordinary. Tonight, though, Will’s apparently decided to tie one on, and Hannibal hadn’t quite realized just how many refills they’d both had until his vision started to blur at the edges whenever he moved his head.

He raises the wine to the light, admires its color, and tries to remember just how much there’d been in the now-empty decanter when he’d started. He seems to recall it may have been quite a lot. He seems to recall this was not the first bottle of the night. He blinks at it and then drains the glass. He has to keep up. It’s the polite thing to do.

He focuses back in on Will, or tries to. He’s still going on, gesticulating with the hand that doesn’t hold his glass, excited about the theory that Hannibal’s having a certain amount of difficulty following at this very moment. His eyes are lit up with determination. He has no idea how attractive it is when he’s intent on something this way, losing his usual self-consciousness and layers of behavioral armor. It’s delightful to watch. But distracting.

Hannibal shakes his head a little, trying to clear it, and interrupts. “Yes, I think you’re right about that.” He has no idea what he’s just agreed to. Hopefully it was something theoretically sound. “I think I’d like some after dinner coffee. Can I get you some?” _Please say yes please say yes…_

“Sure. Do you need a hand?”

“No, no, I’ll manage.” Hannibal is concentrating every ounce of focus on getting out of his chair and crossing the room without betraying that his head’s spinning. He holds himself carefully as he crosses to the exit but Will’s not looking at him, he’s looking into the fire, withdrawn into the depths of his mind, probably still working out his theory.

Once Hannibal gets into the kitchen he can let go a little bit. He steadies himself on the back of a chair. It’s not that it would be the end of the world for Will to realize just how drunk Hannibal’s let himself get, but Alana wasn’t entirely wrong about his need for dignity. Clutching the backs of chairs is not dignified.

Coffee. Coffee will help. Hannibal moves about the kitchen, which he could do drunk or drugged or in his sleep, and gets the coffee on. He inhales deeply, the smell starting to clear his head a little. 

Leaving it to brew, he heads into the downstairs bathroom. He splashes some cool water on his face and wrists, clearing his head a little further. He looks at his reflection in the mirror and tries to figure out where he went wrong.

It’s actually pretty obvious. He’d failed to account for two things. First, how lowered his own tolerance would be, after so many years in confinement. And second, he had not counted on Will Graham’s tolerance. The man always could drink, but apparently in Hannibal’s years away Will’s really been practicing. 

In another frame of mind Hannibal might wonder what demons drove Will to this much drinking and whether any of those demons had his face. In his current frame of mind, he’s just trying to figure out how to get Will to cut himself off for the night.

He takes some deep breaths and rests his forehead against the cool mirror until the world stops spinning. He can do this. He is not going to let Will Graham drink him under the table.

One more splash of cool water and he heads back to the kitchen, to find Will already there pouring the coffee. “ _Ačiū_.”

Will looks quizzical. “Bless you?”

“What?” Shit. He’s slipping languages. It’s been years since he did that unintentionally. “I meant “thank you.” I apologize, I must be more tired than I realized.The coffee will help.”

Will hands over Hannibal’s cup. Hannibal takes it gratefully and downs half the cup before he quite realizes the smell coming from it isn’t pure coffee. It’s too late to do anything but swallow it, so he does, and then raises his eyebrow at Will.

“You didn’t give me a chance to tell you I’d made it Irish.” Will’s smiling innocently. Maybe too innocently. Maybe he’s not quite as unaware of Hannibal’s clever “I’ll drink as much as you do” plan as Hannibal had thought. 

Hannibal puts the cup down and reaches out as unobtrusively as he can to steady himself on the countertop.

Will Graham may be the death of him yet.

**Author's Note:**

> Miręs girtas = "dead drunk" in Lithuanian
> 
> Hey, come hang out with me [on Tumblr](http://damnslippyplanet.tumblr.com).


End file.
